by C. S. Quinn
Chapter 38
The Mint was even more chaotically constructed up close. They entered from the Tower side by means of a rotting plank ramp that rocked disconcertingly underfoot. Charlie eyed several holes where the wood had split and been hastily nailed over with fresher lengths.
A thin wooden door hung open at such an angle that Charlie doubted it had been closed in years. As they moved further inside, the ringing chink of men beating metal surrounded them. The timber room was stifling, dotted with a jumble of dilapidated coin-makers who sat on stools, tapping farthings from sheet metal at dizzying speed.
Charlie watched as they peeled up the punched bronze. A boy with a brush moved in, sweeping the tinkling money into a rapidly filling crate.
Lily cupped her hand and shouted into the mass of industry. ‘On the King’s business!’
Almost immediately the most incredibly shaped man emerged from the presses. He was tiny with thick grey hair tucked behind his ears. Starvation-thin and barely more than five feet tall, but with the full-sized muscular arms of a giant. He had a single tooth in his gummy old mouth and had stripped down to a ragged pair of breeches in the heat, exposing a surprisingly muscled chest for a man of his years.
‘Help you?’ he asked amiably, rubbing machine-greased hands on his shirt. His tone was casual, but Charlie noted his quick eyes were roving all over Lily’s dress and gypsy trinkets. ‘I’m the foreman hereabouts,’ he added.
Lily showed her medallion and the man nodded slowly, looking her up and down.
‘Takes all sorts, I suppose,’ he observed, ‘to keep the Merry Monarch on the throne. But I never thought I’d see a gypsy employed by the King. We’re very busy,’ he added. ‘Proving to His Majesty his new machines are a fool’s errand.’
‘I don’t see any machines,’ said Charlie.
‘Other part of the building,’ said the foreman. ‘We’re having a race, of sorts. The King comes back here with his Frenchie ways. Not his fault, I suppose. But we’ll soon show him an Englishman with a hammer can best a Frenchman with his machine, won’t we boys?’ The foreman raised his voice at this last part and the coin-makers mumbled a muted assent. The pace of coin tapping intensified. The foreman grinned gummily, watching the stamp and sweep of coinage. ‘What do you need to know?’ He addressed his question to Charlie.
‘Do you know anything about this ring?’ asked Charlie, holding it up.
The foreman took it, turned it, then brought it to his single tooth and gave it an exploratory bite. ‘Made here,’ he agreed. ‘Bronze press.’ His finger circled the front and he flipped open the hidden panel to reveal the face of the dead king. ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘There was a fashion for macabre mementos of this kind. Royalists were nothing if not dramatic.’
‘Do you know who might have made it?’ asked Charlie. ‘It was a safe-passage ring,’ he added, ‘for Royalists hoping to be smuggled from the country.’
‘They loved their cloak-and-dagger,’ said the foreman, shaking his head. ‘Codes and hidden treasure. This kind of thing was treason.’ He tapped the face of King Charles. ‘Whoever made that ring would likely have kept it to himself.’
‘There’s a puzzle inside,’ said Charlie. ‘Seek the gold on London’s fairy ring for the key to Avalon.’
The foreman laughed rudely. ‘They weren’t built for war, were they, those poor Royalists.’ He shook his head. ‘Sendin’ letters whilst Cromwell was making swords.’
Something had changed on the foreman’s face and Charlie was suddenly sure he was hiding something.
The foreman scratched his chin. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you so well,’ he concluded. ‘We never made keys in the Mint.’
‘You said the Royalists sent letters?’ said Charlie. ‘During the war.’
‘Did I?’ said the foreman, his casual tone not quite ringing true. ‘Well that’s true enough, isn’t it? Letters and plots. That was how the Royalists fought.’
A possibility formed in Charlie’s mind. The brass-cut shape of the ring would have required a specialist worker. ‘The Mint makes seals as well as coins, doesn’t it?’ he said, watching the foreman’s face. ‘The kind you press into wax, to sign a letter.’
‘Aye.’ The foreman nodded uneasily. ‘Best seals in the world, made in London. Cannot be forged. Grant you passage and give your word authority.’
‘Might the person who made this ring have been employed making seals?’ suggested Charlie. ‘The brass cut is the same.’
‘Possible, I suppose,’ said the foreman hazily. ‘But if you’re looking for the old Royalist seals, they were locked away, a long time ago.’ He eyed the ring.
Charlie glanced at Lily. She seemed not to have noticed the foreman’s suspicious manner, and was chewing at a ragged fingernail with her white teeth and surveying the coin-making equipment.
‘Might we take a look at some of the old seals?’ asked Charlie.
The foreman hesitated for slightly too long. ‘You have the King’s permission to see what you will,’ he said eventually, ‘but I couldn’t tell you where they are.’ He gestured to the creaking wooden walls. ‘The room was built over, after the King returned.’
‘Built over?’ Charlie was taking in the mouldering wood.
‘Cromwell won the war,’ explained the foreman. ‘Everything to do with the old King was thrown in a cupboard. It was done in a hurry. No one knew if the Republic would last. So destroying Royalist things seemed unwise.’ The foreman nodded. ‘Soon after there was a great call for new coins, seals, everything. We had to build quick to meet demand. The Royal things got lost in amongst it all,’ he concluded.
‘You don’t know if anyone kept a record of where this lost room is?’
‘Those who made it are long gone. America. You didn’t await the King’s return if you were one of those who fought for Cromwell,’ he added. ‘And when you’re as old as I am, you learn not to ask too many questions. Regimes change, men come and go.’
As the foreman continued speaking, Charlie was building a strong impression of a man protesting too much.
‘I keep my head down and do my work,’ continued the foreman. ‘You don’t involve yourself in politics if you work in the Mint.’
‘Where do you suggest we start looking?’ asked Charlie.
The man shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘The pressing house at the back is most likely,’ he said airily. ‘Though I doubt you’ll find it. Don’t walk across the old Gully Walkway,’ he added, pointing towards a rickety exterior walkway. ‘Best to go through the coin-blank room, past the sheet-rollers.’
Charlie noticed Lily was watching the foreman keenly.
The foreman looked towards the presses. ‘I must get back to my labour,’ he said. ‘We’ve two hundred pennies to press before dark and no money for more candles.’
‘He’s lying through his single tooth,’ hissed Lily, as the foreman walked away. ‘What’s he hiding?’
‘The old seals,’ said Charlie. ‘Did you see his face when I mentioned them?’
Lily nodded. ‘Perhaps we should have asked him about a green-and-gold dress with leaves stitched over,’ she said. ‘In any case, the foreman doesn’t want us to find the old seals. What should we do?’
‘Start in the furthest room to where he suggested,’ said Charlie, ‘by the route he told us not to go. Let’s cross the old Gully Walkway.’
Chapter 39
As night fell, the party at the Golden Apple was gearing up to full swing. On the narrow stage, girls cavorted and danced to a lively tune. Outside, Covent Garden was filling with revellers.
‘Claret is a penny a glass, or a shilling in the boxes,’ Mrs Jenks was explaining to her newest two girls.
They’d come to her from Damaris Page’s devastated brothel, frightened and desperate – exactly the combination she liked. Sadly, only one was suitable. Viola was Italian and hoped to be an actress. The other, called Clancy, was Wapping-lewd and pretty only in a youthful way, with a weasel slant to her nose and teeth.
But Mrs Jenks could hawk Clancy’s virginity a few times before she turned her out with the other Covent Garden street walkers.
‘What do the girls drink?’ asked Clancy. It had been several hours since her last slug of rum and she was beginning to feel the effects. She was eyeing the barrels hopefully.
‘Nothing,’ snapped Mrs Jenks. ‘You’ll keep your wits under my roof. I’ve worked hard to make us reputable,’ she added. ‘The Golden Apple used to be the blackest brothel in Covent Garden. Now look.’ She gestured proudly to the stage. ‘It’s a proper theatre.’
Clancy bit her lip. Her hands had started to tremble.
Mrs Jenks steered the young girls through the drunk patrons and rouged faces in the theatre pit. Unlike most other bawds, Mrs Jenks had been bred to finery. She was an immaculately attired woman, with every lacy cuff, bright ribbon and snowy frill in place. Her blue eyes were eerily dilated by excessive belladonna and expensive lead paint set her features in a perfect white oval, giving her the appearance of a black-eyed doll.
‘You’ll work the pit with the other rub-and-tug girls,’ she explained, adjusting the line of pearls that held her false blonde curls in place. ‘If you prove popular we might try you in a box.’
Mrs Jenks pointed to the high boxes. Arranged twelve feet above them was the noble seating. Twenty theatre-style boxes held actresses in black masks, each doing whatever it took to attract the richer blood. Several had succeeded and were occupied with well-dressed patrons. Some drew curtains or called for wine and spirits to be winched up using an elaborate pulley system. Some were openly servicing gentlemen in plain view.
‘What of the other theatres you supply?’ asked Viola tentatively. ‘We were told you send girls to the licensed theatres. The King’s and the Duke’s.’
The black eyes settled on her. ‘I manage the whores at all the theatres,’ said Mrs Jenks. ‘But they must work their way up from the Golden Apple. Every girl in Covent Garden wants to work the licensed theatres. Some even end up acting privately for the King,’ she added tantalisingly.
Clancy glanced at Viola, wondering if her friend was falling for the lies.
‘Half of what you make is due to me,’ continued Mrs Jenks. ‘If you’re late, you’re fined. If you cheek a man, you’re fined. Any complaints, it’s a shilling comes from your earnings.’
Clancy was trying not to stare at Mrs Jenks’s peculiar eyes. The huge black pupils gave her an ethereal quality, like a fairy. A sailor with his trousers open staggered onto the stage and the doll-like face shifted. Now the back eyes were shark-like, thought Clancy, gazing into their murky depths and remembering a terrifying sketch she’d seen in a sailor’s effects.
On the stage, the man glimpsed Mrs Jenks’s predatory expression and quickly produced a gold coin. The nearest actress took it, then threw her skirts over the man’s head, whilst winking at the crowd. The shark-eyes faded, the red mouth flicked upwards. Mrs Jenks turned back to Clancy and Viola.
‘Your dresses,’ she said, her eyes lingering on Clancy’s armpit stains. ‘Something will have to be done.’ She clicked her fingers that they should follow and led them to a row of trunks.
‘You can trust us with your fine dresses,’ said Clancy, manoeuvring her features into an earnest expression and trying to clip her vowels.
Mrs Jenks opened the oldest trunk. A musty smell wafted up. ‘Something from in here,’ she said, delving in with a veined hand.
She pulled out a red courtly dress, woefully out of fashion, and handed it to Viola. The dark-haired girl took it, her mouth turned down.
‘Now,’ said Mrs Jenks, eyeing Clancy. ‘For you.’ She extracted a faded yellow dress with a sizeable rash of orange mildew.
‘I’ll smell like an old docker,’ complained Clancy. ‘It stinks worse than boat-bilge.’
Mrs Jenks glared. Mistaking her silence for hesitation, Clancy threw both hands into the trunk.
‘What about this one?’ she suggested, pulling out a strange old dress. ‘It looks like somethin’ from one of the old masques,’ said Clancy, admiring it. ‘Fairies and enchantresses.’
The thin silk fluttered delicately as she drew it free. It was stitched with hundreds of tiny green-gold leaves, so they seemed to be falling. A mess of green ribbons splayed out from between the leaves, like a May Festival crown.
Mrs Jenks’s ruby-coloured mouth opened and shut. ‘I’d forgotten about that dress,’ she said, reaching to take it. ‘No, you may not wear it. It’s far too valuable . . .’
‘Mrs Jenks!’ A scrawny girl with thick face paint skidded into the room. ‘The ’prentices, Mrs Jenks! The ’prentices! They’re heading up Cheapside!’
Clancy was looking at the barrels of wine again. Her gaze dropped down to the green-gold dress. Each of the fabric leaves could be sold, she thought, for a penny or so.
‘Stop squawking, Millicent,’ Mrs Jenks scolded, releasing Clancy from her glare in her annoyance. ‘What did I tell you about speaking properly? There’s always talk,’ said Mrs Jenks. ‘The apprentices haven’t attacked the Golden Apple for fifteen years. Do you know why?’
Millicent shook her head.
‘Because Covent Garden is where royalty goes for their wine and whoring. An attack on us is an attack on the throne.’ Mrs Jenks took in the seedy exuberance of her stage with pride. ‘And the theatres are the safest places of all.’
‘They’re organised,’ said Millicent, enunciating carefully. ‘Like an army.’
‘Do you think a pack of blue-aproned boys could threaten me?’ said Mrs Jenks. ‘I’m three steps ahead of them.’ She gave a slight smile. ‘Any apprentices dare try attacking my houses, they’ll soon discover the penalty for treason.’
Something seemed to turn in Mrs Jenks’s mind. Her lips moved of their own accord.
The old dress. The riots. Something very important had suggested itself.
Mrs Jenks turned quickly back to where Clancy had been standing. But the young pickpocket had fled, taking the old dress with her.
Chapter 40
Charlie and Lily were staring out into the void. The Gully Walkway was an ancient rope-bridge of rickety wood, strung high between the inner and outer walls over the putrid moat. What remained of the splintering steps was roughly tacked into the loose brickwork with rusting nails. The entrance onto it had been boarded over at each end with thick planks.
‘Maybe the foreman was telling the truth,’ said Lily uncertainly, staring down at the green moat far below. ‘Maybe he just didn’t want us to die.’
‘It’s already boarded up,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘Why warn us not to come this way? Suggests excessive concern for two strangers, don’t you think?’
He looked at the rickety falling-down walkway.
‘Easy,’ he decided. ‘It’s just like wooden roof-tiles in Cheapside. Step lightly and avoid the green bits.’
‘It’s all green,’ said Lily, looking warily out.
Charlie stuck a leg over the crossed boards and put a tentative foot on the creaking platform. It shifted ominously beneath him.
‘Sound as a bell,’ he called back, stepping forward with the other foot. ‘Only keep to the wall.’
He heard Lily step over and take a gasp of fright. ‘It moves!’
‘I thought you weren’t afraid of heights,’ said Charlie, inching along with practised dexterity.
‘It’s not the height,’ said Lily, stepping carefully. ‘It’s the water.’
A gust of wind went tunnelling through the old planks, causing them to ripple disconcertingly.
‘You’re used to London rooftops,’ said Lily, breath catching in her throat. ‘I’m not.’
‘Take your shoes off,’ suggested Charlie. ‘Easier to balance.’
Lily closed her eyes, swallowed and managed to pull one shoe off. She staggered slightly, and her bare foot split a mouldering plank along the middle.
‘I can’t do it!’ she shouted to Charlie. ‘I’m going back.’
He crossed nimbly bac
k to where she stood. ‘Hold on to me.’
She looked at him, then down to the moat. ‘This isn’t worth a gold ring,’ she said. But she took his hands gratefully.
‘No,’ agreed Charlie, turning backwards to inch her further across. ‘But we know the foreman is hiding something. He’s obviously a Republican. Perhaps there’s some secret here. You could share it with the King, earn back your privateer’s licence.’
‘I knew this would happen,’ said Lily bitterly, trying not to look down. ‘I knew I’d end up in some mortal peril with you, Charlie Tuesday. I promised myself I would never do this again.’
‘You’re already over halfway across,’ Charlie pointed out, keeping a tight hold of her hands. ‘No sense in going back now.’
Lily raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘Why do I always have to be in the most dangerous of places,’ she importuned a nameless deity, ‘with the most persuasive man in London?’
He smiled at her. ‘I knew you missed me.’
They’d made it almost the whole way across, Charlie moving slowly backwards.
‘I can’t see anything here the foreman might be hiding,’ admitted Charlie, looking around. ‘Nothing carved on the wall.’
He looked out to see London ranged before him, a thick wall winging its way from the Tower to encircle the old city. The sun was beginning to set, casting blood-red fingers across the sky. Tomorrow was Maundy Thursday, Charlie realised. Good Friday the day after. He was running out of time to save Maria, and all they’d encountered were old puzzles and dead ends.
‘Just let’s get off this walkway,’ said Lily, fixing her eyes on the welcome interior of the far side with relief.
Charlie’s bare feet touched something jagged on the smooth planks. He glanced down to see one of the planks bore a key-shaped hole, ragged where the metalwork had been pulled off.
‘Some of these planks were reclaimed from an old door,’ said Charlie, assessing the size and weight of the lock. A thought occurred to him.
‘Why have you stopped?’ demanded Lily, her voice launching high.
‘I’m looking at the planks,’ said Charlie. His eyes settled on one behind Lily’s shoed foot. ‘There!’ he said. ‘Look. Something’s been written.’